


Children of War and Love

by MarigoldFlowers



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Crying, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mokuton, Uzushiogakure | Hidden Eddy Village, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, sadness I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldFlowers/pseuds/MarigoldFlowers
Summary: There’s an energy that flows between these branches,Hashirama thinks as he crouches on the largest branch of an oak tree. He’s felt the faint whisper of it before, but not nearly to this extent. Simmering beneath the surface of wood and moss, there’s life overflowing to the brim- thrumming with ancient power. He feels the gentle caress of it against his fingertips, almost like a motherly touch. Hashirama tilts his hands and watches eagerly as the same feeling pulsates up his arm and all the way to his elbow.It’s beautiful.Maybe, just maybe, he can try to mimic it. Guide it and release it somewhere. So he steadies his heart and lets his own chakra wash over the branch. The feeling is strangely comforting, but exhilarating at the same time. As he shuts his eyes in concentration, a single splinter appears in the cracks of the aged wood, raising a small leaf up from its stems with all the delicacy that nature can offer. Hashirama whoops in victory.





	Children of War and Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! For those of you reading my other story, I'm sorry I haven't updated. I accidentally deleted-- yes, DELETED the entirety chapter five because it was stored on a folder on my desktop that I thought was useless and dragged into the trash. I'm still crying
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy this weird fic that I wrote because............I was bored

_ There’s an energy that flows between these branches,  _ Hashirama thinks as he crouches on the largest branch of an oak tree. He’s felt the faint whisper of it before, but not nearly to this extent. Simmering beneath the surface of wood and moss, there’s life overflowing to the brim- thrumming with ancient power. He feels the gentle caress of it against his fingertips, almost like a motherly touch. Hashirama tilts his hands and watches eagerly as the same feeling pulsates up his arm and all the way to his elbow. 

 

_ It’s beautiful.  _

 

Maybe, just maybe, he can try to mimic it. Guide it and release it somewhere. So he steadies his heart and lets his own chakra wash over the branch. The feeling is strangely comforting but exhilarating at the same time. As he shuts his eyes in concentration, a single splinter appears in the cracks of the aged wood, raising a small leaf up from its stems with all the delicacy that nature can offer. Hashirama whoops in victory. 

 

_ He is four when he discovers his mokuton.  _

 

_ ____ _ __  
  


Dirt is piled up in a tiny mound not far from the Senju compound. It’s secluded in a small expanse of bamboo trees, underbrush, and overgrown grass. 

 

The grave is so tiny. 

 

Compared to the adult’s, this one is nearly a third of the size. The voices of the mourners linger, but even Tobirama and Itama leave as the hours pass. Hashirama won’t let himself go back to the compound- _ can’t _ -because he knows that one specific room in it will be empty.  _ He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone-  _

 

“Kawarama, can you hear me?” He says to the grave as if it will answer. Hashirama’s shaking and hiccuping as tears well up in his eyes. His sunny-eyed, cheerful brother, the epitome of happiness even in a time of war and chaos. His loving, gentle brother, so full of hopes and dreams- 

 

_ He wanted to be a painter.  _

 

His little brother used to make brushes out of leaves and Hashirama’s mokuton, and would paint onto smooth rocks by the river using ink. Father would have been livid if he ever found out, so Kawarama always threw them away after he was done. But he dreamed of painting with real brushes and real paint, dreamed of a peaceful world where he could create masterpieces for all the clans in the world. 

 

The leaves begin to spin around Hashirama in a whirlwind of green and brown. 

 

_ He wanted to be a painter.  _

 

Kawarama’s name is engraved into the headstone  _ forever and ever.  _ His laugh, his voice, his paintings are gone.  _ He’s gone.  _

 

_ He was only seven years old.  _

 

So young and carefree, just like all the children who died for a war they did not start. Just another grave to mourn for, another headstone to cry on, another name to be forgotten. Hashirama drops down to his knees and curls into himself. 

 

“I miss you already.” He mumbles through choked breaths. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m such a bad older brother.” The ground lurches as the roots from the bamboo strains itself through the earth. It curls and tightens until there is an arch of braided branches hanging over Kawarama’s grave. 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

There’s a waterfall of tears dripping down his cheek and falling to the ground. Hashirama’s chest burns with pain and hurt that claws at his lungs, overtakes him until he wants to scream. He knows that this must be disgraceful to his family and that a true clan leader would never weep. But Hashirama cannot help the feeling of loneliness. No child is able to. 

 

_ Kawarama wanted to be a painter.  _

 

The leaves circle him with angry circles, cutting through the air like a kunai. The entire forest seems to shake with the same of hopelessness that tears at the winds until the land around Hashirama is grieving with him. But he knows that he will have to leave the grave. Kawarama’s death cannot be in vain- and Hashirama will make sure of that. He wipes his tear-stained cheeks, and closes his eyes in one last prayer. 

 

“Goodbye.”  __  
  


_ ____ _

 

A wide-eyed girl stares into Hashirama’s eyes. She looks to be about his age, and high-ranked too, but she’s not from his clan. What startles him the most is the crimson red hair that is held up in two buns on either side of her head, high and mighty like a crown of fire.    
  


“What are you doing?” She asks, eyeing the rows of small saplings in Hashirama’s hand. He opens his palms to show her the budding flowers and lush, lime-green leaves clinging to his fingers. The girl gasps in glee.

 

“What’s your name?” She asks. 

  
“Hashirama.”

 

“Mine’s Mito!” 

 

He smiles and dips his head in greeting. He doesn’t recognize the name, but his father was hosting a banquet in hopes of an alliance with the Uzumaki today, so maybe she’s an Uzumaki. 

 

“It’s so pretty,” Mito gushes and gently touches the plant. “Is this your nature release?” 

 

Hashirama is taken back by the statement. His mokuton is one-of-a-kind, and he barely uses it in battle.  He fumbles with his words before saying, “Yeah. How do you know?” 

 

Mito grins. “I heard about it from my father. Don’t worry, we’re allies!” She flashes a thumbs up to him. 

 

_ Allies. _ Hashirama turns the word over in his head, deciding that he likes it. 

 

“That means that the Senju clan will always help the Uzumaki clan if we’re ever in danger, and we’ll do the same for you!” Mito adds. 

 

He nods and returns her smile. “Can we be friends?” 

 

“Of course!” She says, a warm smile on her face. 

 

Hashirama blinks at her. Mito’s eyes are an alluring shade of indigo, caught with snippets of light filtered through overhead leaves and branches. He blushes as he catches himself staring. 

 

Mito is beautiful. 

 

_ ____ _

 

The letter on Hashirama's desk remains unopened, mostly because he’s too afraid to see its contents. It’s a creamy white color with a dollop of red wax on the seal, a stark contrast to the bamboo scrolls that his clan uses.  _ Happy thirteenth birthday,  _ it reads.  _ From Mito.  _

 

Hashirama bites his tongue in nervousness and rips the envelope apart. Perhaps a little too harshly. Strips of paper fall to the ground and Hashirama lets out a startled yelp as a small scroll falls to the ground with a thunk. Wincing at his own stupidity, he ducks underneath his desk to pick it up. 

 

It’s a seal. 

 

Hashirama mind trip’s because  _ of course _ , Mito would do this. She’s always challenging him to venture outside of his comfort zone-- even if that happens to be practicing seals. They’re her specialty, but not quite his. Hashirama eyes the scroll with annoyance. 

 

He stares at it for about a minute before giving into curiosity. 

 

The seal releases a golden glow as he forms a ram seal and concentrates chakra into the formation of a whirlpool. It’s difficult as hell, but Hashirama forces himself through it.

 

When his chakra finally decides to obey, the seal clicks, and in a puff of white smoke, a small gift emerges. It’s wrapped in textured linen and decorated with a golden bow. Hashirama smiles and unveils the gift to reveal a neatly-stored set of kunai. 

 

Except they’re not exactly kunai. Unlike the weapons made by his clan and many others in the mainland, Uzushio’s kunai are curved to one side with stout handle. THe metal is unlike anything Hashirama has ever seen. It is blacker than squid ink, and all light around it seemed to be soaked up by the material. Obviously, it was created by a master smith.  _ Tobirama will love to see this,  _ Hashirama thinks with delight, and sends a mental thank you to Mito for giving him such a wonderful birthday present. 

 

Just as he’s about to barge into his brother’s room, his father steps into his with a grim look on his face. 

 

“Father, I received a birthday gift from Mito-sama today, would you like to see--” 

  
“Silence.” 

 

Hashirama backs up from his chair, worry rising in him like a tide. 

 

“Father?” He whispers. 

 

With a heavy sigh, Father closes Hashirama’s screen door behind him, shutting it tight. 

 

“It’s about your brother, Itama.” 

 

Hashirama’s breath catches in his throat. 

  
____ 

 

Tobirama stares out the window but doesn’t say anything. There’s a blank expression on his face that Hashirama’s never seen before.  _ He needs to be angry,  _ the doctor advises again and again.  _ Emotion will wake him up.  _

 

_ Was he ever truly awake?  _

 

His mother paces the length of his room. Hashirama clings to the frame of the wall and watches the silent interaction between them. Mother rarely shows affection to either of her remaining children, and after losing Itama too, Hashirama begins to understand why she holds them at arm’s length. 

 

“Tobirama.” She says suddenly, and his last sibling glances up slowly. His mother towers over him and  _ glares.  _

 

“You’re such an insolent child. Always causing trouble in the family one way or another.” 

 

Tobirama barely blinks at the harsh words, but Hashirama’s jaw slacks. His mother continues. 

 

She points a finger at his chest. “A disgrace. Failure. A mockery of the Senju clan. Can’t you see it? Your weakness?” Her hand shakes as she stares him down with the same red eyes as Tobirama’s. Hashirama moves to defend his brother _ ,  _ but a rough and calloused hand rests upon his shoulder and makes him turn. His father pulls him back behind the screen door once more and steadies Hashirama in place. 

 

Suddenly, he’s all-too aware of the emotions radiating off of his mother like heat. His gift of mokuton and interaction with natural energy grants him the ability to recognize them, but it’s so goddamned painful to have to experience someone else’s agony tenfold simply because they’re in his range that he simply ignores it sometimes. Hashirama reaches out to Mother’s chakra with his own, and flinches when he senses that it isn’t  _ anger _ or  _ disappointment  _ that she’s feeling, but regret. Before he has time to wonder why, she’s knocking down all of Tobirama’s self-written books off the shelves. 

 

“Why couldn’t you have died instead?” She demands, and something in Tobirama shatters like glass. He’s not talking back, Hashirama notes with worry, because Tobirama  _ always  _ talks back. But there’s not a hint of defiance in his eyes except for a glassy, faraway look.  

 

His mother searches for something else to break. She moves to his chests and finds his favorite katana and wrenches the handle from the blade and doesn’t hesitate to throw it out the window. Hashirama jumps at the sound of it hitting stone and casts desperate eyes at his father, who observes the scene with a firm gaze.  _ Do something!  _ He wants to say, but never gets the chance. 

 

“I hate you!” She rips apart Tobirama’s diaries, his scrolls of his own jutsu and lets the soft bamboo paper fall to the ground- but nothing sparks a reaction in him. He just picks up the pieces and brushes over the smudged ink. There’s nothing but cold indifference on the surface, but beneath the facade of the perfect soldier it’s someone who’s fighting an inner battle. Tobirama is hurting, Hashirama realizes. Torn between his duty to war and a child’s mind.

 

_ Emotion will wake him up.  _

 

_ It will  _

 

_ It has to _

 

_ Wake up, Tobirama _

 

_ …. _

 

_ Wake up _

 

A pause fills the room as Mother draws in a breath- and Hashirama is afraid that she might scream- but what comes out is nothing but a whisper. 

 

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” She asks Tobirama with wide, frightened eyes. 

 

Father’s hand grips Hashirama’s yukata tighter.    
  


“Tobirama.” Mother moves to him, clenched fists rising- and Hashirama wants to run, to scream- but she falls onto her knees instead of hitting his brother. 

 

“Tobi.” She repeats as tears gather at the corners of her eyes. Mother is still for a second before she grapples the edges of Tobirama’s cloak and buries her face into the fabric. “Please be mad at me. Please-” Her voice breaks. Finally, a spark of surprise flashes in Tobirama’s face as she cradles him under her trembling arms. “I don’t want to lose you too.” 

 

_ Wake up _

 

The scene is so intimate that a small bout of jealousy rises in Hashirama, but he pushes the feeling down, down to where he doesn’t even acknowledge its existence.

 

His father finally faces him. “Do you understand?” He asks. Hashirama rips himself away from the room and lifts his chin, back as straight as an arrow. Though his heart hurts and his eyes are watery, he forces himself to be calm. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

_ ___ _

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure what this is 
> 
> but hey, if you want me to write more, I'll write more this isn't a one-shot lmao (is it?) 
> 
> (idk either)


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